Emma Lazarus Quotes

Lo — a black line of birds in wavering thread
Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!

Berikan kepadaku mereka yang lelah dan papa
Yang terbelenggu dan mendambakan kebebasan
Yang terbanting ke pantaimu, berimpitan lemas
Beri aku para gelandangan, dan yang terhempas
Akan kunyalakan pelitaku di sisi gerbang emas

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

The children of the prophets of the Lord,
Prince, priest, and people, spurned by zealot hate.
Hounded from sea to sea, from state to state,
The West refused them, and the East abhorred.
No anchorage the known world could afford.

The Jewish problem is as old as history and assumes in each age a new form. All the magnanimity, patience, charity, and humanity, which the Jews have manifested in return for centuries of persecution, have been thus far inadequate to eradicate the profound antipathy engendered by fanaticism and ready to break out in one or another shape at any moment of popular excitement.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
with silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Then Nature shaped a poet's heart — a lyre
From out whose chords the lightest breeze that blows
Drew trembling music.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

A lady 'twixt two knights' stone effigies,
And every day in dusky glory steeps
Their sculptured slumber of five centuries.

No signs of life are here: the very prayers
Inscribed around are in a language dead.

Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

No man had ever heard a nightingale,
When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred
To study and define — what is a bird.

I seem to have always one little window looking but into life.

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles.